


Kintsugi

by AmbassadorInara



Series: Loops and Holes [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse of italics, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Insecure Crowley (Good Omens), Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, No Smut, Reluctant Dom, Submissive Character, falling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 18:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20764892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbassadorInara/pseuds/AmbassadorInara
Summary: That bloody angel had rejected him over and over again, for thousands of years, and Crowley kept returning like the pathetic puppy he was, begging for scraps of affection he knew he didn’t deserve. Carrying a torch through years of hesitation and reticence, waiting, always waiting, wanting what he could never have. And yet with a few words, all those moments shifted into negative in his mind, the shadows of reluctance now outlining a brilliant daring. He had trouble believing it. Perhaps- perhaps, when that inscrutable angel had pulled away all those times, it wasn’tno, never, not with youbut insteadcareful dear, any faster and I will Fall.Crowley felt like he should say something. Yet he was caught in the empty static between quick-witted deflection and melting into tears, and forming coherent thoughts was impossible. He let the silence drag on one moment too many, and Aziraphale was gone.





	Kintsugi

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Loopholes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19293892) by [JulieBehrens (JulieCox)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulieCox/pseuds/JulieBehrens). 

> Thank you to JulieCox for inspiring me with Chapter 1 of Loopholes. Go read it it's so good!  
Like Loopholes, this is set as an alternate ending, where Crowley and Aziraphale have not pulled the body-switching trick.
> 
> This is a sequel to _From the Library of Mr. Anthony J. Crowley_, but it's not really necessary to read that first. Basically the scenario is the same as Loopholes: Aziraphale is "captured" and magically bound to Crowley to protect him from Heaven's retribution.
> 
> cn: some magic (consensual) slavery but no smut

Crowley was falling. 

No, he’d already done that, a six thousand and one times. This was different. He was falling apart. 

He could feel the cracks forming along familiar fault lines, providing an erratic wobble to his thoughts. Just enough to unsteady him. He had that strange sense of disorientation, of being out-of-place, that comes when you wake up somewhere unexpected, but no, he was in his bed in his spartan Downstairs flat. It might have been due to his modest silk pajamas that he was fairly certain he didn’t own, or the the fact that his blanket was much cozier than he remembered, but if so, he didn't realize it. 

Instead of taking in his surroundings, he was struggling to piece together his hazy memories of last night. Snippets swirled in his mind, chasing each other. How much had he drank?

_“Thank you, master.” _

Fuck.

That’s right, he had corrupted the only good thing in his interminably miserable life and now would be metaphysically tied to it for the rest of eternity. Fucking heaven. He sank back into the surprisingly soft pillows, seriously considering going back to sleep for another year or two. 

But the memories were flooding him now, jarring him into wakefulness. Aziraphale on his knees, practically begging to be Bound. The blizzard of angelic power that threatened to destroy him afterward. The heady rush of _making_ the angel obey. And then, worst part. Not the Binding itself, but its effects: the way it seemed to force Aziraphale to enjoy it. He had responded to every command with something cruelly akin to _delight_. There were some days, years even, that the angel’s luminous smile was the only thing that kept Crowley going, and now even that was tainted. No wonder he was falling apart.

_Why_ couldn’t that bloody angel have simply talked to him about it? He didn't believe that Aziraphale had come up with the plan in the moment, and the clumsy lie hurt almost as much as the manipulation. He wished the angel could have trusted him. They could have figured something out together. 

He let his mind wander to how that might have played out, indulging in the self-righteousness of knowing how it _should_ have been done. He imagined Aziraphale explaining the idea to him, letting him examine it from all angles. The two of them, holed up in the bookshop until late at night, poring over manuscripts and discussing plans, like they had done so many times in Brother Francis’s cottage. Coming to the realization that there really was no other option. Seeing the door to carnal pleasures unlocking, opening just a crack. Aziraphale gently offering his wings, leaving the choice to him.

Could he have done it? 

Without the imminent threats from both their sides, without being backed into a corner, without the manipulation and pressure - could he really have stolen his best friend’s freedom? He remembered the agony of slipping cuffs over those radiant wings. Aziraphale would never fly again. 

But he would also never Fall. Small mercies. 

Maybe it was for the best that he had a clear motivation for Binding Aziraphale. He could rest, secure in the knowledge that at least he had done this depraved act without a hint of lust, solely focused on protecting his angel. Burning down the walls of morality simply to keep them alive, safe, and together. Small mercies, indeed.

* * *

He traded the pajamas for a simple black tee and jeans and padded barefoot toward the kitchen. He hadn’t quite decided if he was in search of coffee or more alcohol when he spotted sunlight. It was beaming into the hall from a spare room, one that had nominally been an “office” but really served as a catch-all for junk he didn’t know what to do with. Where in the literal hell was _sunlight_ coming from? 

He peeked inside and was shocked to see that the room was now an arid greenhouse, full of cacti and succulents basking under sunny heat lamps. That was new.

“Oh hullo! You’re awake then,” Aziraphale noticed him cheerfully. He was seated at a small potting table, sleeves rolled up, both hands covered in soil. Crowley was momentarily surprised to see him. He didn’t really know where he’d expected the angel to _go_, exactly, he just wasn’t accustomed to him still being there in the morning. It was kind of nice.

Eyes shining merrily, surrounded by life - he was so goddamned beautiful. Crowley indulgently drank in the sight, images of Aziraphale peeling his shirt off and running streaks of dirt down his chest springing unbidden to his mind. He did his best to keep his face impassive. He regretted not hiding his coward-yellow eyes behind dark glasses.

“I hope you don’t mind. I got a bit…bored,” Aziraphale gestured mildly at the tiers of plants. “I know you never really preferred cacti, but their stubborn defiance is quite an asset here…”

“’s fine, angel.” Crowley interrupted with a shrug. “I’m sure you’re spoiling them terribly.” He ran a hand along the slate top of the potting table. The stone was warm under his fingers, almost begging for him to coil up on top, soaking up the heat through his scales. He wondered if that was that was intentional.

“How long did I sleep”? 

Aziraphale’s clear blue eyes flicked to the ceiling as he counted back. “About five months, maybe?” he replied airily, “Give or take.” No wonder he was bored.

He finished up with the tiny red cactus he’d been potting and rinsed off his hands at a newly-added faucet. Crowley caught a glimpse of something gold on his arm, but couldn’t get a good look before his sleeves were rolled back into place. A bracelet, maybe, although that did not seem to be the angel’s style.

Crowley followed Aziraphale out of the greenhouse, and he was, he had to admit, enjoying the view. Aziraphale was wearing trousers much tighter than his usual, and the way it showed off his curves made Crowley want to grab him and sink his teeth into his flesh. He pushed that thought down deep, calling upon thousands of years of practice, but after the implications of what had happened last ni— five months ago, it was almost impossible.

As Aziraphale bustled in the kitchen making coffee, he casually recounted his experiences of the past few months, making even the most outlandish activities sound domestic and mundane. He had befriended the neighbors, bringing them homemade czarnina (“I make it the traditional way,” he said haughtily, “with _duck_, not people.”) and inviting them over for tea. Crowley hadn't even known he had neighbors, but appreciated Aziraphale’s reasoning that they were safer surrounded by allies. Aziraphale had much more freedom in hell than Crowley expected - when challenged, he had simply spun wild stories about the atrocities Crowley was committing on Earth, and the torment he was enduring at his hands. Apparently the entire neighborhood was now simultaneously intimidated and impressed.

He had created a life for himself here, the same way he’d created a space for the plants and a home out of hell. His goodness simply could not be contained. Crowley marveled at how adept he was at reconciling extremes: the familiar and forbidden, indulgence and restraint, truth and deception. How he could take their conflicting natures and turn them to be complementary, balancing their irreconcilable edges. Finding beauty in the contradictions.

Crowley simply sat at the bar (it was a nice addition, opened up the floor plan quite well) and sipped his coffee, falling more in love with the angel with each tale. Everything he had done in the past five months had been so kind, so brave, so uniquely Aziraphale. Crowley truly did not deserve him.

Then suddenly, all the disorientating details of the morning shifted into clear focus. The pajamas. The plants. The stone table. The lies. Everything, literally, _every single thing_ Aziraphale had done in the last five months was for him. To protect him, to comfort him, to serve him. The sweet stories he was telling slanted sideways, taking on the same cruel patina as his subservient smile. The realization hit Crowley like an extra step on a flight of stairs, the sharp panic of freefall that evoked worse memories. 

“Aziraphale.” He tried to cram his tortured thoughts into ill-fitting words. “I can’t do this. I just can’t.” He ran a hand down his face. He didn't need a servant, or a - he internally retched a bit - a slave. He needed a friend. “I just- I wish we could go back to the way things were,” he mumbled. 

Aziraphale’s face suddenly became serious. He nodded in understanding, taking a deep breath. “I am truly sorry for pushing you into this Arrangement. I know how difficult it is for you, and I want you to know - “ 

“Angel, stop” Crowley moved around the bar to stand in front of him, interrupting what was promising to be a lengthy apology. “You did what you had to. I would have done the same. It’s done.”

Aziraphale looked satisfied at this, although Crowley suspected that he would hear the well-rehearsed apology in full at a later date. “But this - fixing up the flat, playing housewife - I don't know what’s happened to you but I need to fix it.” He considered adding “please,” but thought that was a bit much.

A smile started to form around Azirphale’s eyes, its tenderness countering the sadness in his voice. “Is it really so unthinkable that now I’m finally able, I would _choose_ to love you?” 

Love. He said it so easily, like he’d been saying it for so long he’d forgotten when he’d started. It was like the words were as much a part of him as his white-gold hair or tartan bow ties. 

It also made absolutely no sense.

That bloody angel had rejected him over and over again, for thousands of years, and Crowley kept returning like the pathetic puppy he was, begging for scraps of affection he knew he didn’t deserve. Carrying a torch through years of hesitation and reticence, waiting, always waiting, wanting what he could never have. And yet with a few words, all those moments shifted into negative in his mind, the shadows of reluctance now outlining a brilliant daring. He had trouble believing it. Perhaps- perhaps, when that inscrutable angel had pulled away all those times, it wasn’t _no, never, not with you_ but instead _careful dear, any faster and I will Fall._

Crowley felt like he should say something. Yet he was caught in the empty static between quick-witted deflection and melting into tears, and forming coherent thoughts was impossible. He let the silence drag on one moment too many, and Aziraphale was gone.

* * *

Crowley was falling.

No, not him. The mug. He had completely forgotten he was holding it. 

It slipped from his hand, crashing on the tile floor, shattering into a constellation of curved white shards, stark against the pools of black coffee. Muttering curses in dead languages, he angrily grabbed a dishtowel and began to clean up his mess by hand. He was in no state for miracles.

Six. Thousand. Years. And he’d fucked it up. The latest entry in the neverending fuckup parade of his life. Oh, yes, of course, _now_ he could think of all the things he could have said, all the things he'd ever wanted to say to Aziraphale, confessions whispered only to empty rooms and the occasional unnerved houseplant. 

But that wasn’t really true, was it? His love was no secret. He loved wildly, recklessly, shouting it with everything but words. Offering himself up over and over again, knowing how the song always ends, but still hoping that this time, _this time_, it would be different. Nevermind that hope was a thing with spines, piercing his embrace. He would grasp hold all the same, black ichor and loneliness dripping from his delicate hands.

He’d gotten good at patching himself up afterward. Repairing the walls that kept his emptiness at bay, slathering a coat of jaded sarcasm to cover the cracks. But the angel’s sudden acceptance had burst him open from the inside. He was simply breaking, each piece falling away as if it had never been repaired. He was shattering, slivers sheering off, splinters scattering. He would never be able to fix this.

He wanted to believe it was true, that deep down the angel had loved him all along. But it was ridiculous. He was a demon. Aziraphale could never _love_ him, not the way he wanted, anyway. Aziraphale's love was holy, a gift from God, and God had long since rejected him. And for some unfathomable reason, Crowley had chosen to cope by reliving that same cycle of rejection with him for the rest of eternity.

But Aziraphale was _incapable_ of rejecting him now. He had everything he ever wanted with the cruelest caveat imaginable. How many times had he railed at God for allowing slavery to exist? Offered to do some blessings or even some righteous smiting just to end the horror? And now here he was, bringing low the most perfect creature God ever made. If he thought God capable of it, he would have accused Her of irony.

He remained on the kitchen floor all night, with a coffee-soaked towel full of sharp ceramic and several small cuts on his fingertips, but Aziraphale did not return.

* * *

Crowley was not sulking. He was _pondering_, which was completely different. He didn't particularly like pondering, preferring to just make things up as he went along, but Aziraphale, as always, was the reason for the exception. 

It had been three days since the angel had disappeared, his chilly absence permeating the flat. Crowley had spent much of his time in the greenhouse, subjecting the cacti to longwinded tirades, but they were obstinate little shits and refused to be intimidated. 

Now he was quiet, stretched out on the potting table, black scales soaking up badly needed warmth. At first, being alone had been a relief. The temptation to take Aziraphale at his word would have been too much. He knew it would be wrong to take advantage of the angel, bound as he was, but with him spouting off confessions of love like that, what was a demon to do? Crowley could barely cope before, when it was just strolling side by side and sharing lunch.

He thought he would be better at resisting temptation. He was very good at _creating_ them. He had been humanity’s companion since the beginning. He understood their desires, knew their pain. There wasn’t much difference between Falling and being cast out, after all. They knew that they were missing something, they could feel around the edges where Divinity once resided, the shape of what they had left behind in Eden. They applied their endless creativity to filling that emptiness: they tried vices and debauchery, yes, but also art and achievement and knowledge. Most of all they tried each other, fitting themselves into the empty spaces between them. It was never enough, of course, but with each new invention Crowley was there with them, offering the hope that this time, _this time_ it would be different, this time it would be enough to finally ease that eternal ache of _nothing_ inside them. He held back a bit of that hope for himself, too, if he was being honest. He wanted to be there when it happened. When humanity finally gave God the middle finger and took back their birthright, restoring themselves to wholeness with nothing more than their indomitable belief that they _could_. But until then, he enjoyed reminding them of their options, encouraging them to seize their free will with both hands and never surrender it. That’s all temptation was, really-just handing out apples and letting people make their own choices. 

But without choice, there can be no temptation. And yet. The angel had said he was making a choice. Crowley wasn’t sure if he believed him. He turned the words over in his mind, feeling the pricks of hope in chest, alluring and dangerous. He did all kinds of stupid things just for a bit of hope. Maybe it was time for one more. 

He slid into his more usual man-like shape, still sprawled languidly on the table. "Aziraphale, come back," he said confidently into the empty room.

With a _pop!_ Aziraphale appeared, looking shocked. He staggered a bit but maintained his footing. "That was _quite_ rude!" He cried indignantly.

“Huh. I didn’t think that would work.” Crowley gazed thoughtfully, considering the varied and tantalizing implications of long-distance orders, but turned to the matter at hand before his imaginings became too wicked. “I need to ask you a question, and I need you to answer me _honestly._” Crowley leaned hard on the last word, making it a command. Aziraphale looked hurt by that, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

“All these things you’ve done - been doing - for me,” Crowley gestured around the verdant greenhouse. “All of _this._ Would you have done it if you weren’t Bound?” 

“No.” Aziraphale looked genuinely repentant. “I’m sorry."

Honestly, deep down this was the answer Crowley had been expecting. The hope he’d embraced disappeared as if it had never existed, leaving in its place a shadow of what his best friend once was, before he’d corrupted him, injected him with evil, twisted him into some mockery of love all because he couldn’t be content with what he had, no, he always had to grasp for _more_ because he was a selfish pathetic unforgivable _demon_...

“You have to understand…She’s so much a part of me that if I lost my connection to Her, well, I’m afraid I would lose myself.” Aziraphale continued. "That I wouldn’t be _me_ anymore. If I lost Her, I might lose...everything.”

Crowley lifted his head up from where it had come to rest in his hands. “What?” He heard the words Aziraphale was saying, but they were spiraling around each other, forming eddies and swirls rather than sentences. 

“I might not even remember anything. I might…hurt you.” Aziraphale’s voice had gotten quieter, but his eyes darted about wildly. “All those years...I tried to resist, really I did. I would try to get as close to you as possible, infinitely halving the distance between us, but never ever touching.” He hovered his hand a millimeter above Crowley’s arm, tickling the hairs and warming his skin. 

“It was reckless and foolish.” Those two words were quite the opposite of how he saw Aziraphale. “Every time you left, I would check my wings for black feathers. I was so…afraid.” His eyes dragged down Crowley’s form, following every curve and shadow. "I would have gotten there one way or another, though.”

That was something Crowley’s rapidly spinning brain could latch onto. It was so absurdly, offensively false. No one could accuse his angel of being anything less than perfect. He wouldn’t allow it. “You’re a good person,” he objected indignantly, almost angrily. “You could never Fall.” 

Aziraphale reached out to lightly touch his cheek with an otherworldly tenderness. “I was already falling, my dear.” 

* * *

The kiss was light and airy, a wisp of affection, yet the weight of it pummeled into Crowley’s chest, stopping his heart and taking his breath. It was only a moment - a perfect, arresting moment - but it resonated inside him, rumbling through the foundations of his identity, shaking loose questions that he thought were long answered. He was too stunned to move, let alone kiss back. His hands froze in midair, struck by indecision.

Aziraphale drew back slowly, his cobalt-grey eyes searching, worried that he’d made a mistake. “I’m sorry- I thought you wanted-“

Crowley interrupted him shakily. He didn’t really understand what was happening, so he didn’t even bother trying to put it into words. Instead, he just tipped his mouth back into Aziraphale’s, kissing him fiercely, trying to force six thousand years of longing into a single moment. Aziraphale melted underneath him, shifting his body to fill all the empty spaces between them. Crowley loved the way he moved, the way he was losing himself in the kiss, the way he clearly was _savoring_ it. Something about being _savored_ like a fruit tart or a glass of wine thrilled Crowley, a strange giddiness rising in his chest.

“You…are a delight,” Aziraphale murmured as he pulled back, breath tickling Crowley's ear. He felt his natural defenses automatically spring into action, a quick-witted deflection already on his tongue. He couldn’t allow the kind words to land, to make a home in his memory. The few that had slipped past his defenses over the years were still there, towering expectations compared to his actual self, monuments both to the yawning chasm between who he was and what Aziraphale deserved and to the angel’s unfathomable ability to overlook the discrepancy. 

But Aziraphale was enjoying this, and he couldn’t bear to ruin it. So he let the word _delight _pierce him, let the affection scrape along the ragged edges of himself where love used to reside, reminding him of his desperate hollowness. He buried his face in the angel’s neck so there would be no danger of eye contact, leaving a trail of kisses under his ear.

Aziraphale embraced him, threading fingers through his hair. When he whispered, “I love you,” Crowley could hear the tenderness in it, strands of apology and promise and need all wrapped up in the words. He wanted to say it back, to spill all the secrets he had kept precious, explain how he’d lived a life in the angel’s shape, knowing he’d never be enough but still needing to try. Of course he loved Aziraphale, he’d loved him since Eden, loved him to the end of the world and out the other side, loved him beyond comprehension.

But _being _loved, though, that was new. Demons couldn’t be loved. He didn’t deserve it and didn’t even know how. Aziraphale, warm and comfortable against him, was everything he’d ever wanted and yet somehow it still felt so _wrong_, like every touch was stroking his scales backward until they stood up like spines.

Crowley pulled away as gently as he could, but it still felt like recoiling. “Too fast?” Aziraphale laughed, the joke light on his lips.

Crowley’s jaw worked, trying to conjure up words but finding none. Aziraphale’s delight melted to concern, which emanated the same vast love, but in a different tone. He pulled away further, giving Crowley space, leaving behind a cold emptiness on his skin. What was wrong with him? He just needed to open his stupid mouth and say the words. Everything he’d ever wanted was right there, waiting for him, _wanting_ him, and here he was being a bloody coward.

“I-... I-“ Crowley started, but the words changed course in his mouth. “I don’t know what to do.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, his mouth forming a perfect circle that Crowley desperately wanted to kiss again. “Oh! I thought you’d have had plenty of experience.”

“I mean yeah, sure, of course.” His last time was quite a while ago, a passionate fling with a 5th-century pirate, but there was no need to get into specifics right now. “I just don’t know what you like, is all. Never been with an angel before.” This was completely true, and also not what he had meant in the slightest. Crowley actually quite relished the idea of learning the angel’s preferences through extensive experimentation. It was a well-worn fantasy of his. 

No, what he meant was that he didn’t know to do this dance with a partner. His love had always been solitary, carefully picking out steps in the angel’s wake. Matching his rhythm and tempo, all hesitation and restraint. But now Aziraphale had changed the tune and pulled him in close, too close, where he could feel his sharp edges and smell the stench of sin on his skin.

“And I’ve never been with a demon. I think we’re rather unprecedented.” Aziraphale’s gaze changed slightly, coming to rest on Crowley’s jittery fingers. Being _seen_ like this made Crowley feel naked and small, but he craved more all the same. The echoing emptiness of his soul taunted him, calling him a greedy, desperate slut. It was probably true. 

Aziraphale's face turned resolute, decisive. “Come with me.” He pulled on Crowley’s hands, leading him into the sitting room. Crowley followed obligingly. As they settled on the leather couch, he reached up and ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, setting off a shiver that wound its way down his back. “How does that feel?”

Crowley’s shaky sigh was his only response, but it felt accurate enough. He leaned his head back, relaxing into the touch. It brought back memories of when he’d visited a salon rather than simply miracling his chosen style. This was different though, more tender, more intimate. Somehow, Aziraphale always seemed to know exactly how to calm him down, even if he didn’t quite understand why.

Crowley doubted the angel _could_ understand. He had been loved his entire life. He was loved into existence. He was so good at being loved, it was effortless. He had never experienced the familiar ache of being unlovable, of craving something you barely even remember. That deep-set need that was as much a part of him as breathing, which is to say, not a necessary feature but one that he’d internalized through eons of practice. His open, yawning spirit that greedily demanded more - whatever affection and attention the angel gave him, it would never be enough to satisfy the desperate loneliness, the lack of love foundational to his being. What did it matter what he _had_, when _wanting_ was who he was? 

Aziraphale had settled into a gentle rhythm now, slowly working his way across Crowley’s scalp. The alternating caresses and light scratches sent steady waves of pleasure washing over his mind, and he felt his back muscles start to release their tension. He sank into the cushions, instinctively rolling toward Aziraphale. The new angle allowed him to begin to twist longer locks around his fingers, unspooling Crowley’s mind with each rotation, until there was only the single, blissful sensation of an angel's hand in his hair, and everything else evaporated. 

* * *

Crowley was falling.

He was falling to pieces, landing with his head in the angel’s lap, his mind shattering into glittering fractals. His eyes fluttered open briefly upon impact, catching a glimpse of Aziraphale’s adoring gaze. He was looking at him like he might admire a painting, full of wonder and curiosity.

“Your eyes are beautiful.” 

They weren’t. They were ghastly and inhuman and stubbornly refused all his attempts to change them. But for Aziraphale, he would keep them open, let him see. He couldn’t bear to watch, though. He stared at the ceiling instead.

“Could I see all of them?” Aziraphale asked gently, running his thumb across the thin skin under Crowley’s right eye. “Please.” He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t say no to his angel. He let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding, and released the magic that made them look as human as possible. His view of the ceiling wobbled slightly as his sclera retreated and his pupils narrowed to slits. 

Aziraphale let out a happy little sigh. “Lovely.” The compliment was sincere, but it still made him want to crawl inside himself, to slither into some dark hole and never come out. Crowley couldn’t understand how anyone could look at him like that, especially an angel. Like he was worth seeing, worth knowing. He supposed it was the angel’s inherent goodness that allowed it. He felt it all the more intensely, broken as he was. Angelic love, so solid, supporting him through months of repose, years of quiet rebellion, centuries of solitude. A sturdy protection from the outside world, now melting into liquid gold, running in rivulets across the mess of his mind.

Aziraphale held him close, breath hot on the demon’s neck. “I wish I had been as brave as you.”

“Brave?” It was not an accusation Crowley had experienced often.

“You dared to defy your nature. To break free of the definitions She had placed on you. You came for me, allowing yourself to be hurt, over and over again, just to have a fleeting taste of love.” Now that love was the only thing holding him together.

Aziraphale pulled back, his eyes like stormclouds. “You are simply…audacious. And so very patient.” He stroked Crowley’s cheek tenderly. “I love you, just as you are.” With each gentle touch, his molten love started to fill up Crowley's empty spaces, creeping into dark corners like lava. It held the fragments in place, shifting and re-forming him. It wrapped him in a cocoon of contentment, easing the shouting, demanding silence within. Filling his cracks with gold.

Crowley pushed forward, closing the gap between them. The kiss was audacious, too, if not particularly patient. Their fingers slid together, clinging with desire, and Aziraphale’s other hand was on the small of his back, pulling him close, leading him through the dance.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that, lovers entwined together in the middle of hell. Embodied contradictions resolving themselves, whispering reassurances and unwinding their shared history. Offering hushed answers to questions not asked: _the garden_ and _the books_ and _always_.

By the end, he was something new. Something whole. His fault lines repaired but not hidden, his darkness intricately patterned with shimmering scars as gold as his eyes, a six thousand year story of courage and love written in the seams. 

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, and Crowley let himself fall once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing pottery with gold, highlighting rather than covering up the places where it was broken. It extends into a philosophy that the wear and damage should be honored as part of the history of the item, and that it should not be abandoned simply because it was once broken.  



End file.
